A Girl Called Rosie

by Anne Doughty

  ‘That’s only because she knew you were comin’,’ John replied promptly. ‘Any time I’ve had to go to Armagh and dropped in to deliver something or other she’s been there all right. Usually with some neighbour clocked by the fire,’ he added, surprised that Rose hadn’t read Martha’s absences for herself.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Aye, you. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed she’s afraid of you?’

  ‘What?’

  Rose dropped her knitting on her knee and stared at her husband not sure what to make of the small smile on his lined and weather-beaten face and the firm set of his shoulders.

  ‘She’s afraid of you, because you might just tell her what she doesn’t want to hear. She’s a greedy, selfish wumman and the likes of her can’t stand those that aren’t the same way as herself.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ she said quickly. ‘When I think of the neighbours she’s so thick with, they’re just like her. Money and gossip. And yet I think she’s always looking over her shoulder to see what they’re saying about her. She’s not a happy woman, John.’

  ‘An’ you’re right there. She doesn’t spread much happiness around her family either,’ he said bitterly. ‘Which brings us back to the wee lassie upstairs. God bless her.’

  ‘Yes, it does,’ Rose replied as she picked up her knitting again. ‘But you haven’t answered my question. I asked you why you think Martha picks on Rosie?’

  ‘Ye mean to say ye don’t know?’

  ‘No, John, I don’t. That’s why I’m asking,’ she said shortly.

  ‘It’s because she’s like you. Sure she’s looked like you since she was barely able to walk. And she just gets more like you all the time. Except maybe for the odd bit of crabbitness that they say comes with age,’ he added, with a sly smile.

  Rose laughed aloud. She hadn’t heard the word ‘crabbit’ for years, a word John’s mother had used, long ago now, when her arthritis was bad and she felt herself being sharp with her grandchildren.

  It was typical of John that he’d make her laugh when she’d been sharp with him. It had been like that through all their long years together. She’d never been able to be really cross with him, or if she had, she’d not been able to keep it up for very long.

  The room had grown dim and shadowy, the corners dark except where the lively flames reflected in the well-polished furniture or the small diamond panes of the china cupboard. Beyond the tall windows, the trees stood motionless against the pale sky, heavy now with the darkness of full leaf. The hush of evening had descended on the farms and fields. No sound at all flowed into the quiet room. Apart from the flicker of the fire and the small whisper of ash settling from a glowing log, the silence was complete.

  Rose put down the matinee coat she was knitting for her young neighbour’s expected baby, the light now too poor to see. She was about to ask John to light the gas lamps when suddenly, as clearly as if she were a girl of sixteen again, she remembered what it was like to be a servant. To be at the beck and call of senior servants, themselves answerable for the order of the house. It had been a hard life. Long hours and heavy work. But then she had always had her mother to help and comfort her. Whenever she was tired, or anxious or upset, she knew there would be reassurance, a kind word, a cup of tea.

  With a clarity she thought had disappeared with advancing years, she saw just how right John was. Martha had always disliked her, avoided her, disparaged her behind her back. Now she was treating Rosie like her servant. Mistreating her, in fact. When what she should be doing was helping her to grow into womanhood, a hard enough task for any girl.

  ‘John, what are we going to do?’

  Even as she spoke, Rose was suddenly aware the question she’d asked was the one he’d so often asked her whenever there was some crisis. Now it was the other way round. But why not? Why shouldn’t that change like everything else?

  If there was one thing she had come to accept in these last years, so full of the distress and anxieties of the long years of the war and all the heartache that had come after for their own land, it was the way things could change, at any moment, for good or ill. Nor could you tell to begin with which way it was going to go.

  ‘I don’t know, Rose. I leave these things to you,’ he said steadily. ‘But you tell me what you think’s best an’ I’ll go along with it. It’s a long time since I saw our Sam so anxious. He’d break his heart if anything hurt that wee lassie.’

  ‘Well, we’ll not let that happen,’ she said softly, knowing that there was someone other than their son who had lost his heart to a slip of a girl called Rosie.

  ‘Here y’ar, miss. A nice boiled egg and toast. Yer granny says to eat it all up an’ she’ll be up to see you after the doctor comes. She said she could do the stairs once in a morning but not twice. Though she’s better, mind you. I see an improvement since Friday …’

  Rosie had been awake for some time, but she’d felt so easy and been so comfortable she’d gone on lying with her eyes closed just listening to the familiar sounds of the house and the rapturous song of a blackbird in the garden.

  She sat up in bed and watched Mrs Love, the housekeeper, fuss around the room, putting down her breakfast tray, drawing back the curtains, straightening the cushion on the big armchair by the window.

  Mrs Love talked all the time and once she got going she was very hard to stop. She always reminded Rosie of the Ancient Mariner in Coleridge’s poem. But Mrs Love was such a kind-hearted soul that even when Rosie longed for quiet, like this morning, she did her best to pay attention.

  ‘Yer granda went out early and drove over to Dromore so ye’ll maybe have young Dr Stewart here before too long. Would you like another pot of tea?’ she demanded, as Rosie poured a second cup and drank thirstily.

  Rosie reassured her that she never had more than two cups at breakfast. What she didn’t say was that she’d be lucky to get a second cup if one of the boys hadn’t emptied the pot before she got to it.

  ‘I suppose yer sister’s working away. She must be nearly saved up by now.’

  Rosie nodded, her mouth full of toast.

  She was intrigued by Mrs Love. She talked all the time and appeared never to hear anything you said in reply, yet weeks or months after you mentioned something it would come up in conversation as if you’d been talking about it only the previous day. It was almost a year since Emily had said she planned to go to America as soon as she had the money for her fare and enough in her pocket to satisfy the immigration authorities.

  ‘Maybe you’ll go too now yer finished the wee school?’

  Mrs Love always referred to Miss Wilson’s school in Richhill as if it were not quite proper. Having learnt to read and write and do sums, which she was willing to admit came in handy for getting a job when you were young, she could see no point in reading novels, reciting poetry or speaking French.

  ‘But I have no money saved up, Mrs Love.’

  ‘Sure if you went to America you’d have your grandmother’s people to go to,’ Mrs Love replied. ‘Her brother Sam’s family. God rest him. The McGinleys. I know they’re Catholic, but I’m sure any relative of your granny would be a decent sort and good to you. There’s good and bad in all sorts as my dear husband used to say. He had a great friend who was a theosophist. I wouldn’t know one of those from a horse and cart on a dark night, but he was so kind to me when Billy passed on. Ye have to keep an open mind about these things,’ she added, as Rosie despatched the last of the toast and emptied her teacup.

  Richard Stewart arrived shortly before noon, parked his motor outside John’s workshop and came in by the back door.

  ‘Richard, how lovely to see you,’ exclaimed Rose. ‘How are my dear friends at Dromore?’

  ‘Both well and they both send their love. It’s you we’re all concerned about. When is it you and Uncle John are planning to go off?’

  ‘Some time this week or early the one after. As soon as he can organise a particular Lagonda he’s set his heart on. Don’t ask m
e for its model and number, I’m just so relieved that you and your father managed to persuade him to hire in Kerry. He really was quite prepared to drive all the way there and back.’

  Richard smiled and followed her through the kitchen, down the hall and into the sitting room.

  ‘And what about your back, Auntie Rose? Do you think the journey will do it any good?’

  ‘It’s getting better, Richard. I have done what you told me, really I have. Mrs Love said I was walking much better this morning than I was when she went off to see her sister on Friday.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I know how much it means to you both, but you really must take it gently. It is a long way.’

  ‘It’s another world, my dear. But I’ve wanted to go back all my married life and we’ve never managed it. This might be our last chance,’ she said quietly, looking up at the long, sensitive face and the grey eyes.

  He was just so like his mother, in manner as well as looks. Cool, calm, competent on the surface but underneath full of restless energy. There was nothing that passed before his sharp gaze that he did not observe, question and try to understand. It had been no surprise to her when he’d won the gold medal for the best student of the year on the results of his Finals in Edinburgh.

  ‘And what about your wee granddaughter, Auntie Rose? Is there anything you want to tell me about her?’

  ‘No, Richard dear. It’s the other way round. I need you to tell me all you can about her and this accident she’s had,’ she explained, looking up at him. ‘I’m not coming up with you. You know your way.’

  She followed him as he moved towards the sitting-room door.

  ‘She’s not usually shy or awkward,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘If she’s uneasy, it’ll tell me something.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Uncle John seemed more concerned about her mother than about the bang on the head.’

  Rose laughed as she left him at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Like your dear father, Richard, you don’t just look at a set of symptoms. I confess freely that I think my daughter-in-law Martha is probably a greater danger to my granddaughter’s health than any bang on the head.’

  Rosie looked up from her book as she heard a light tap on her door. In answer to her soft ‘come in’ a tall, trim, young man with thoughtful grey eyes slipped quietly into the room and crossed to her bedside.

  ‘Good morning, Rosie. You look very comfortable.’

  ‘Yes, I am. It was worth a bang on the head just to be here,’ she responded cheerfully, as he picked up the battered leather-bound volume she had just put down.

  ‘Pride and Prejudice,’ he commented, as he ran his eye over the bruise that stood out so sharply from the creamy skin.

  ‘Granny and Aunt Sarah’s favourite book. I always read it when I come here,’ she said, answering his unspoken question and beaming at him, as he drew a chair across to her bedside.

  ‘And what do you read at home?’

  In the two years since qualifying as a doctor he had become adept at asking innocent questions, but even with two years’ experience he was shocked at the effect of his words upon this young girl.

  The whole set of her face had changed. The bright sparkle in the dark eyes disappeared. Even her shoulders, draped in a light bedjacket, took on a rounded shape quite out of keeping with her years.

  ‘I don’t have much time to read,’ she said awkwardly.

  ‘You live on a farm, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I expect it’s very busy at times.’

  She nodded, her face closed, the bright smile so completely erased he began to wonder if he had imagined it.

  Deciding that only a professional approach would now serve, he asked her what exactly had happened.

  ‘I tripped and hit my head against the door,’ she said quickly.

  To his ear, there was something about the way she said it that wasn’t right at all. It sounded too pat, too practised.

  ‘May I have a closer look?’

  He took his time examining the bruise, touching it gently and asking her where it hurt most. He took her pulse and looked at her tongue, though he knew they’d tell him nothing he didn’t know already.

  ‘Rosie, when someone suffers a bad fall there are a number of possible causes,’ he began, grateful to see how intently she was listening. ‘Some of them are quite simple and obvious, like tripping over the cat. But some are more complicated. With older people there’s often a momentary blackout. That’s unlikely in your case, but one has to be very cautious with head injuries. It would help me if you could remember exactly what happened?’

  Rosie looked him in the face and was surprised to find he didn’t turn away. Very few people ever looked straight back at you. Apart from her father and Granny and Granda, in fact, she couldn’t think of anyone. Then she remembered Miss Wilson and Lizzie Mackay, but that still wasn’t very many.

  She glanced down at the cover of her book, aware he was still looking at her, waiting patiently for her reply. She sighed and took a deep breath.

  ‘I can remember exactly what happened, so it wasn’t a blackout.’

  ‘Good. That’s splendid. You should be as right as rain in a day or two and Uncle John will be able to take you home.’

  He stood up and walked across to the open window, looked up at the blue sky and down into the cobbled yard where his motor was parked near the little gate that led to the garden. He said what a lovely day it was, how well the garden was looking and that she could go outside now if she wanted to. He turned round just in time to see her hastily wipe a tear from the corner of her eye.

  He crossed the room and sat down again by her bed.

  ‘Perhaps Rosie, just to be on the safe side, you should tell me every detail of what you remember. Then I could be quite sure I was prescribing the right treatment for you.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Less than a week after her arrival at Rathdrum, her bruised face healing rapidly and her good spirits completely recovered, Rosie found herself sitting beside her grandmother in the back seat of her grandfather’s motor.

  ‘Are you right there, ladies?’

  ‘Yes, we’re fine,’ they chorused.

  Uncle Alex, friend and neighbour of Rose and John, touched the accelerator gently and moved out of the yard and under the heavy shade of the limes.

  ‘Kerry, here we come,’ he called out vigorously, as they turned left down the hill, past his own home at Ballydown, as excited about the journey as if he himself were setting off to drive the whole way there.

  The July day was hot but not oppressive. Although the brilliant light reflected from the lush grass by the roadside was dazzling, great white clouds had built up on the horizon and there was a pleasant breeze as they drove to Portadown Station to catch the Dublin train.

  Even when they followed the porter through the booking hall and she saw her father standing on the platform watching for her, a small suitcase in his hand, she couldn’t believe she wasn’t going home with him on the local train.

  ‘Ach yer lookin’ well,’ he said, as he bent towards her, put an arm round her and kissed her. ‘Aren’t you the lucky girl?’

  He moved forward to greet his mother and shake his father’s hand.

  ‘It’s very good of you,’ he said, looking from one to the other.

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ John responded vigorously. ‘Sure isn’t she the one will have to do all the work looking after the pair of us?’

  Sam laughed, relieved and pleased. Rosie would certainly make herself useful and she’d be good company.

  The bang of carriage doors from the further platform, where the huge engine of the Dublin train gleamed in the sunlight, hissed slightly and sent sudden clouds of steam swirling up into the metal rafters of the train shed high above her head, told them it was time to go.

  ‘See you’re a good girl now,’ Sam said, hugging his daughter.

  Rosie smiled up at her father. He still said the
things he’d said to her when she was a child, but whether she was sixteen or twenty-six, she’d never mind, for the gentleness in his tone was the one sure comfort she had always had.

  He was watching for them as they walked down from the footbridge to the further platform.

  ‘See ye enjoy yerselves,’ he called across as they paused outside their reserved carriage where an elderly porter was loading their hand luggage on to the racks.

  ‘Giv’us yer wee case, Miss Hamilton,’ the man said, touching his cap as he climbed down on to the platform.

  She handed him the case without a word, gave a last wave to her father, standing quite alone on the far platform, and got in quickly beside her grandparents, her eyes suddenly misted with tears.

  She had never been further from home than Banbridge, nor left him for more than a week. She had never before been called ‘Miss Hamilton’ except when her mother was being especially sarcastic.

  Suddenly, the carriage jerked and slowly began to move. She leant out of the carriage window as far as she dared and went on waving to him till he was long out of sight.

  ‘You sit here by the window, Rosie, and I’ll sit beside your granny,’ John said suddenly, as she turned away, grateful the clouds of steam could be blamed for the tears streaming down her face.

  ‘I’m all right, John. Really I’m all right,’ her grandmother replied, as she straightened herself up in her seat.

  Rosie looked from one to the other. No, her grandmother was not quite her usual steady self and there was a note in her grandfather’s voice she’d not heard before. Perhaps they were as anxious as she was, going so very far away. It was easy to think you might never come back. Something might happen to them, or to her father. They might never see each other again.

  ‘Ye needn’t be one bit afeard,’ he said softly. ‘Sure this engine could pull two trains and sure there’s hardly anyone on it.’

  Rose shook her head and smiled across at Rosie.

  ‘It’s years since I’ve been on a train,’ she explained rather brightly. ‘It was 1916 after your Uncle Sam was killed in Dublin. We went down to see his grave and stay a night or two with a woman friend of his. That’s eight years ago now. Time goes so quickly when you get older,’ she added, her smile fading as she noticed how closely Rosie was watching her.